The Rivan Codex: Ancient Texts of THE BELGARIAD and THE MALLOREON (The Belgariad / The Malloreon)
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The Mimbrate Knights are savaging Vordue. They try, insofar as possible, to avoid bloodshed in their encounters. Property damage, however, mounts into the millions. The Mimbrates move in, evacuate the towns and villages, and then burn them. Stone buildings are pulled down and the furnishings and other contents thrown onto huge bonfires. Homeless refugees wander about in northern Tolnedra, cursing the Vordues and sending appeals for aid to Emperor Varana. Varana, however, is sitting tight in Tol Honeth, waiting for the Vordues to capitulate.
It appears that Layla has failed. Ce’Nedra remains childless. We must now convince Belgarion to take his Queen to the Vale. Polgara is our last hope.
’Zakath has completed his conquest of the plains regions of southern Cthol Murgos. Urgit’s army, however, has taken up strong positions in the mountains. ’Zakath is preparing for a long, difficult campaign. We can hope that it will take him the rest of his life.
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COUNT Reldegen, the able Governor-General of Asturia, has journeyed southward at the request of both parties to mediate the dispute between Emperor Varana and the Vordues. I’m not certain who first suggested him, but the suggestion was a stroke of genius. I’ve met Reldegen on a couple of occasions, and I’ve never met a more fair-minded and impartial man. The fact that Varana and the Vordues are seeking a mediator is ample evidence that their ‘war’ is winding down. Quite obviously, Varana has won, and Reldegen’s good offices will be somewhat in the nature of a formality—a face-saving gesture to make total surrender more palatable to the Vorduvians. Varana got what he wanted, and he sees no necessity for rubbing the Vordues’ noses in his victory.
Once again we have disturbing news out of southern Cthol Murgos. The region was apparently inhabited before the Murgos came, and the indigenous population was enslaved. Despite the eons of slavery, however, it appears that those people have managed to keep their racial identity intact. Because of their peculiar racial notions, Murgos scrupulously avoid contact with their slaves, hence they are almost totally unaware of what is really going on in their slave-pens. The Malloreans, however, are more curious. The Melcenes in particular seem to automatically begin to search through any new population they encounter in the search for what they call ‘talent’. Drasnian intelligence agents, operating at great risk in ’Zakath’s army, have begun to send back reports of a highly disturbing nature. The Malloreans are aghast at what they have discovered. They have found a sort of religion among the slaves in southern Cthol Murgos. In itself this would not be particularly significant, but what has so alarmed the Malloreans is that this subterranean religion is absolutely identical to the one which exists in the Dalasian protectorates of southwestern Mallorea. This despite the fact that the two regions have been totally separated from each other since the cracking of the world almost 5400 years ago. What seems to upset the Malloreans the most is the fact that a document referred to as ‘The Mallorean Gospels’ is circulated among the slaves. Mallorean Grolims have been attempting for centuries to destroy all existing copies in Dalasia, and now the self-same work appears in southern Cthol Murgos—with no possible explanation for its presence. I am afire with curiosity. I must have a copy of these ‘Mallorean Gospels’. I will not rest easy until I have read them.
This spring Belgarion issued a general invitation to the monarchs of the entire world to attend a conference in the city of Sendar. To take the note of peremptoriness from the invitation, he urged those monarchs unable to attend to send envoys. The avowed purpose of this conference is ‘to examine world tensions and to seek peaceful solutions to frictions between nations.’ This is an ambitious proposal, but one which derives more from idealism than from any sense of how the world really operates. Our Belgarion still has a great deal of growing to do, I fear. I will attend his conference, however, (scheduled for mid-autumn). I look forward to meeting rulers of nations and principalities lying on the far side of the world.
The conference,83 rather naturally, produced almost no concrete results. Belgarion, however, seems not particularly disappointed. The fact that we did talk to each other seems to be enough to satisfy him. Many of the world’s rulers were, of course, unable to attend. Urgit was not present, nor was ’Zakath. Surprisingly, however, both sent envoys. The King of Darshiva is in his eighties, and his envoy expressed the old man’s regret at being unable to attend. The King of Jenno, one of the seven kingdoms of Karanda, is under house arrest for some misfeasance of office. (How can you arrest a king?!!) A number of the visitors at the court of Fulrach, who acted as official host, had no royal title but were of sufficient stature that no one questioned their right to be present. Belgarath attended, as did Polgara, Durnik and the foundling, Errand. From Mal Yaska, the holy city of the Mallorean Grolims, came Urvon, the third disciple of Torak. The meeting between Urvon and Belgarath was chilling. I don’t believe they’ve ever met, but they have known of each other for eons. I’m certain that Urvon had no love for Ctuchik and Zedar, his fellow disciples, but the fact that Belgarath destroyed them both in little more than a single year must give Torak’s sole remaining disciple certain qualms. Moreover, I’m certain that Urvon came into the presence of Belgarion with some highly charged emotions. Belgarion did, after all, kill Urvon’s God. Accompanying Urvon was a strange veiled and hooded woman. I do not know in what capacity she was present. I rather strongly doubt that she was Urvon’s mistress. She seems to have been along as an advisor of some sort. None of us ever spoke to her or saw her face. The single look which passed between her and Polgara, however, froze my blood.
Another peculiar visitor—also a woman— came with her eyes bound and escorted and guided by a towering and awesomely muscled mute. When we politely questioned her presence, she declared in a firm, clear voice, ‘I am here as a representative of my people, and I am here to observe.’ When we pressed her concerning exactly who her people were, she replied in that infuriating way some women have, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand.’ I witnessed also a peculiar little ceremony involving the three women. Urvon’s companion, her face still heavily veiled, approached the blind-folded woman and acknowledged her with the briefest of nods. Then Polgara also approached, and she too nodded. Astonishingly, the totally blind-folded woman—I know she could not see—responded to each nod. There was no trace of cordiality in those greetings, however. They were not unlike the curt nods exchanged by men about to engage in a duel. I’m not certain what’s going on, but I’m most definitely certain that I don’t want to be in the way when whatever it is happens.
One good thing that did come of the conference is that Belgarion managed to make peace between Drosta and Kheldar. The peace was not to the liking of either party, but in the end, both of them bowed to the Rivan King’s will. Drosta will be allowed to keep the expropriated holdings, but he will be obliged to pay Kheldar and Yarblek a certain royalty percentage, such amounts to be determined by a Rivan accountant. Thus, Drosta has to operate his stolen holdings at his own expense and pay a royalty; Kheldar and Yarblek have no operational expenses, but their profits are substantially reduced. It’s an interesting arrangement, but it will only succeed for as long as Belgarion stands over all parties with a club.
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THE die is finally cast. Brand approached Belgarion with a near-ultimatum, pointing out that producing an heir is the King’s foremost responsibility. Belgarion agreed to consult with Polgara about the problem of Ce’Nedra’s childlessness. Brand then regretfully stated, ‘Should Polgara’s aid fail, it will be necessary for you to put aside your barren Tolnedran queen. We will then conduct a search to find a fertile Alorn girl for you to marry.’ In some unknown way, Ce’Nedra overheard this statement. The scene which followed, I’m told, was absolutely dreadful.
It is difficult to foretell what the future will bring. I had thought that with the death of Torak, the world might return to that golden age which had existed before the God of Angarak took the Orb and used it to crack the world. The peace of that simple former age will
never return, I’m afraid. The cracking of the world seems to have been more than just a physical event. The hearts of men were also divided, and we will never again return to our previous innocence. In some ways that’s a shame, but I’m not entirely sure I’d care for a bovinely placid world. The world we have now is full of dangers, but at least it is not dull.
Anheg
ANHEG I,
KING OF CHEREK*
* The amount of labor involved in creating a world tends to make most fantasists a little reluctant about manufacturing another one. An accidental conversation between my agent and another publisher, however, resulted in Elenium/Tamuli, and I discovered that building the second world isn’t nearly as difficult as that first one was. I built the world of Elenium in six weeks. Experience does pay off, I guess. Alternating between two entirely different worlds as we did when Malloreon and Elenium were coming in tandem, however, is an open invitation to schizophrenia. It splits your head right down the middle. I found myself unconsciously reaching for Sparhawk when I was in the middle of a Garion book. Maybe someday we’ll manufacture a third world just to find out if we still know how to do it. We’ll see.
AFTERWARD
Wasn’t that educational? My training (regardless of what it might say on my academic degrees) was in the field of literary criticism, a field which has strayed from its original purpose, I think. The great critics of the eighteenth century believed that a close examination of the classics would improve current writing, and that the purpose of criticism was to produce ‘how to write good stuff’ essays. Criticism should be distinguished from book reviews. ‘My favorite writer is better than your favorite writer’ is just a trifle juvenile, and ‘I could write a better book than this if I really wanted to’ is even worse.
As I said earlier, this collection provides a kind of running description of a process. It included a lot of groping. Some things that looked very interesting just didn’t work. Other things jumped off the page right in the middle of the actual writing. Not infrequently, the story would take the bit in its teeth and run away, dragging us along behind it.
As I’ve mentioned before, when the urge to write an epic fantasy seizes the unwary reader, he will usually rush to his typewriter, and that’s his first mistake. If he leaps into the swamp right away, he’ll probably produce a chapter or two and then find that he’s run out of story, largely because he doesn’t know where he’s going.
Papa Tolkien once wrote, ‘I wisely started with a map.’ I’m not sure how wise my doodle was, but my inadvertent following of the same path also dictated much of our story. People who live on a rocky seacoast usually become sailors (translation: pirates). People who live on large open grasslands usually need horses, and usually get involved with cattle. People who live in natural converging points—river fords, mountain passes, and the like—usually become traders or merchants. Geography is very important in a story.
One of the items ticked off by Horace in his Ars Poetica was that an epic (or a drama) should begin in medias res, (in the middle of the story). Translation: ‘Start with a big bang to grab attention.’ Fantasists tend to ignore grandfather Horace’s advice and take the Bildungsroman approach instead. This German term can be translated as ‘Building (or growing up) romance’. (Note that most European languages don’t use the word ‘Novel’; they still call these things ‘romances’.) The ‘growing up’ approach is extremely practical for a fantasist, since all of our inventions have to be explained to our ‘dumb kid’ hero, and this is the easiest approach to exposition.
Some of you may have noticed that we did follow Aristotle’s advice in the Elenium/Tamuli. That one did start in mediasres, and it seemed to work just as well. Would you like another test? How about, ‘Explain the theological differences between Eriond and Aphrael’?
To counter the ‘Gee Whiz! Look at that!’ sort of thing that contaminates fantasy, the fantasist should probably grind his reader’s face in grubby realism. Go ride a horse for a day or two so you know what it feels like. Saddle sores show up on both sides of the saddle. Go to an archery range and shoot off a couple hundred arrows. Try it without the arm-guard a few times. The bow-string will act much like a salami-slicer on the inside of your left forearm, and it’ll raise blisters on the fingertips of your right hand. Pick up a broadsword, swing it for ten minutes, and your arms will feel as if they’re falling off. Those things were built to chop through steel. They’re very heavy. Go out and take a walk. Start at daybreak and step right along. Mark the spot where you are at sunset. Then measure the distance. That’s as far as your characters will be able to walk in one day. I used twenty miles, but I’ve got long legs. Ask a friend not to bathe for a month. Then go sniff him. (Yuk!) When you write dialogue, read it aloud—preferably to someone else. Ask if it sounds like the speech of a real live human being. The spoken word is different from the written word. Try to narrow that difference.
Next, learn how to compress time gracefully. You can’t record your hero’s every breath. ‘Several days later it started to snow’ is good. It skips time and gives a weather report simultaneously. ‘The following spring’ isn’t bad. ‘Ten years later’ is OK if you’re not right in the middle of something important. ‘After several generations’ or ‘About the middle of the next century’ skip over big chunks of time.
I’ve devised a personal approach which I call ‘authorial distance’. I use it to describe just how close I am to what’s happening. ‘Long distance’ is when I’m standing back quite a ways. ‘After Charlie got out of prison, he moved to Chicago and joined the Mafia’, suggests that I’m not standing in Charlie’s hip pocket. ‘Middle distance’, obviously, is closer. ‘The doors of Sing-Sing prison clanged shut behind Charlie, and a great wave of exultation ran through him. He was free!’ That’s sort of ‘middle’, wouldn’t you say? I refer to the last distance as ‘in your face’. ‘Charlie spit on the closing gate. “All right, you dirty rats, you’d better watch out now,” he muttered under his breath. “Someday I’m gonna come back here with a tommy-gun an’ riddle the whole bunch of youse guys.” Then he swaggered off toward the long, black limo where Don Pastrami was waiting for him.’ ‘In your face’ means that you’re inside the character’s head. Be advised, though, that it uses up a lot of paper. (See Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgarathe Sorceress. First person is always in your face.)
I try, not always successfully, to keep chapters within certain parameters as to length—no less than fourteen pages, or more than twenty-two—in typescript. I try to maintain this particular length largely because I think that’s about the right length for a chapter. It feels right. Trust your gut-feel. Your guts know what they’re doing even if you don’t.
Don’t write down to your readers. Don’t do a re-write of Run, Spot, Run! Belittle your readers and you belittle your work and yourself. Epic fantasy is genre fiction; so are mysteries, westerns, spy books, adventure novels and bodice-rippers. This does not mean that we can ever afford to say ‘Aw, hell, that’s good enough,’ because it won’t be. Write anything you put on paper as good as you can possibly make it. ‘Good enough’ stinks to high heaven, and ‘It’s only a fantasy, after all,’ will immediately enroll you in that very large group known as ‘unpublished writers’.
Everybody in the world probably believes that his own language is the native tongue of God and the angels, so I’ll offend people all over the globe when I assert that English is the richest language in human history. Its richness doesn’t derive from its innate beauty or elegance of expression. Its structure is Germanic (Frisian, basically, with strong overlays of other Scandinavian tongues). West Saxon, the language of King Alfred, wasn’t really all that pretty to listen to, and it’ll sprain your tongue while you’re learning to speak it. English is a rich language because the English were the greatest pirates in history. They stole about one fifth of the world, and they stole words and phrases from most of the languages of the world as they went along—French, Latin, Greek, Hindi, Zulu, Spanish, Apache—you
name it; the English stole from it. My eight years of exposure to college English gave me an extended vocabulary (my cut of the loot, you might say), and when it’s appropriate, I’ll use it. The youthful, marginally educated reader is going to have trouble with such sentences as ‘Silk’s depredations were broadly ecumenical.’ That might seem a little heavy, but it said exactly what I wanted it to say, and I chose not to rephrase it to make it more accessible to the linguistically challenged. If you want simple, easy books, go read ‘The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore’. How’s that for towering arrogance?
In line with that thought, I’ll take one last pass at that ‘I get letters’ business. Some I’ve received have candidly admitted, ‘I didn’t really like to read before I got into your stories, but now I read all the time.’ Let television tremble. Big Dave and Little Leigh are coming to black out those screens. Maybe that’s our purpose in life. We’re here to teach whole generations how to read—not everybody, perhaps, but enough to possibly make a difference. ‘They left the world better than they found it,’ sounds like a tombstone, but there are worse things you can say about people, wouldn’t you say? Egomaniacal, huh? But egomania is a requirement for any writer. You have to believe that you’re good and that people will want to read your stuff. Otherwise, you’ll give it up after your first rejection slip. Always remember that Gone with the Wind was rejected by thirty-seven publishers before it was finally accepted, and short of the Bible, there are probably more copies of that book in print than any other in publishing history—or so I’ve been told.